There’s a place nearby,
a bar part way up a hill
that hosts spoken word
nights. And you
can go there,
and say your piece
for one free beer,
and no one there to hear it.

Sometimes
on a good night,
there’s the old man
who smokes
his cigarette naturally,
and you feel it was never placed between his lips
by hands, or
devices of any kind.
It just grew
out one day from between
those cockled red yellow slugs,
and glows there,
like a burst of daisies
from cracks in a wall.
And you’re not so sure he hears
much else than
the wind,
and the bells
to call last,
the sound of women moaning
madly
in his memories.
And softly,
cracking and persistent below,
the sound
of his initials being
etched
immovable into
the wood of the reaper’s sickle.

When he talks
it’s to himself,
wrapped in smoke
toiling in serpentine coils,
but if you’re smart

you’ll listen.

Calmly,
you’ll listen.

To how he’d steal roses
from cemeteries
to give to his sweetheart.
Of his grandfather who
died of a heart attack
making love to the maid,
while his wife laboured downstairs,
working on tea.

Then too,
he has these un-closing,
smashed window
eyes,
deep in, under sad brows,
a face like
a gravestone with no name.
All pissed on,
prayed for.
With no flowers been set down.
Just that one daisy that’s grown.
And you can go there
and say your piece for
one free beer,
and no one to hear,
while fools
say poetry is dead.

She stains the water with the finest reflections.
A river beds silt sheets crave silk.
She pries the fingers of a flowers fist.
The flower beds fine throws and threads
begin to cry and covet.
She caught her husband’s eye,
and she didn’t give it back.
Now he rests in his coffin with one left,
and the other’s made of glass.
It was always like that.
In the street, mid flight,
she’d catch the eyes of eagles and owls,
and between their cleaved beaks
the eyes of rats.
And she proceeds.
Siphons eyes from their pockets,
like a pick pocket pulls
pennies from their sockets,
and she puts them in a locket,
and she locks it.
Then when she hits home
she puts it in a little cracked clay bowl,
with some keys no one needs,
open safety pins,
pocket lint,
and twisted receipts.
She smashes painted faces like Ming vases
against every portrait she has of him,
whilst his stalking eyes make her feel like
It’s him that’s still alive
and it’s her that’s being viewed in a painting.
She wears his last name like a crucifix
but no longer talks to God.
She only prays to him.
With ribs like folded wings,
and she never brings her hands together,
she only makes a pair of fists.
lamenting things like:
“Like angels and dead insects
trapped inside a spider’s web,
you shared my bed, and we were wed,
but I could not keep hold of you,
not even with eight legs.
And up my set of spiral steps
I can still see your shadow grow as the sun sets.
And any day I’d ignore the sinking sun
to stair at your silhouette.
And any night I’d discard these smug stars
to stare into your heavy, half-mast,
crescent moon eyes,
and hope that, though i couldn’t save your life,
I at least made you feel alive.
Each time we were close enough
to choke each other,
but would only kiss one another’s throats,
and whisper
sweet somethings in our ears,
like nothing’s to fear
my dear, because if you spend your time
Then I’ll save mine,
sit on it and watch it multiply,
share it with you and we’ll never ever die.
When all the greatest lines
sung ten too many times
We’ll take our better traits
in crates, packed on the rail road line.
Take all we love with us.
Leave all we hate behind.
We’ll not fill one of our own
foot steps twice”.